Yeah, I remember the road toads. You'all have Lackland lasers?
Brutality in Basic Training
- Thread starter BLACKHAWKNJ
- Start date
Yeah, I remember the road toads. You'all have Lackland lasers?
hostler
Member
Paris island in 1984. Man you guys are old.
The DIs weren't technically allowed to touch the recruits but plenty of underhanded, behind closed doors kind of stuff happened. The DIs we're great at sneaking little things in like stepping on your fingers while you did pushups, elbowing you in the chest as they walked by and renting your forehead with the brim of their cover.
The DIs weren't technically allowed to touch the recruits but plenty of underhanded, behind closed doors kind of stuff happened. The DIs we're great at sneaking little things in like stepping on your fingers while you did pushups, elbowing you in the chest as they walked by and renting your forehead with the brim of their cover.
LVSteve
Member
My Dad was a volunteer for the RAF in 1950, right when most were trying to get out of National Service. He was doing his square bashing at Cardington in Bedfordshire and had a guy in his group who "wasn't going to do the NS". One day the gang was fell out after a bout of square bashing and this guy walked over to a narrow gauge railway that ran alongside the parade square. The little train came along, whereupon some wag shouted "Don't put your head on the rails!"
The guy turned, smiled at the assembly, and put his left hand on the near rail. As he left camp, he waved his bandaged appendage and called out, "See, I told you I wasn't doing National Service".
Another time Dad said a guy get up from a card game and didn't return. He had hung himself using the chain on an overhead toilet cistern. I can't recall if that happened during Dad's training days or later.
The guy turned, smiled at the assembly, and put his left hand on the near rail. As he left camp, he waved his bandaged appendage and called out, "See, I told you I wasn't doing National Service".
Another time Dad said a guy get up from a card game and didn't return. He had hung himself using the chain on an overhead toilet cistern. I can't recall if that happened during Dad's training days or later.
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Basic at Ft. Jackson, Jun-July-Aug 1964.
Reveille 0400, Run, sweat, sand, run, sweat, sand. Sand really sticks good to sweat. Lights out 2200.
Day after day.
Our battalion was a test bed for a new BCT methodology. As such, there were as many as eight Drill Sgts per platoon, more than half of them had CIBs, they all wore tan pith helmets, which I guess was a blessing compared to OD helmets in the blazing South Carolina sun, and we were the first to get pugil stick training ala the USMC. There was no physical abuse, such as striking or tripping, but there was intense physical training: a pre-dawn run, mass PT every day, sometimes twice a day, double time everywhere, in formation and on your own. After dinner, hand to hand workouts and pugil fights in the sandpits behind the barracks, low crawl workouts (right down flat on the belly, scrape up your belt buckle, move like an alligator) that made you feel like your guts will spill out when you stood up.
Cleaning out the foul smelling, slimy grease pit off the end of the mess hall was a regular assignment for slackers, but only four incidents stood out for me.
1. - standing in formation, early in the cycle, Drill Sgt says "Anybody wanna smoke?" and some fool said "Yes Drill Sgt!"
Drill Sgt lit him up, and promptly put a galvanized bucket over the fool's head, and started yelling "Smoke, c'mon, you wanna smoke you ***, now ^&**^#@ smoke, I wanna see smoke!!!" and he puffed until he puked.
Nobody ever wanted a smoke after that.
2. - Sunday was supposedly a day off, but if you stayed around the barracks and tried for a nap, you'd for sure be on a work detail by 0900. With slick sleeves and a knob haircut, you'd be ID'ed as a trainee anywhere on post, and no matter where you went, you dare not lie down or immediate work detail would ensue.
Well, one fine Sunday morning, I go caught in barracks with a few other guys, Sgt says report to the mess hall with your entrenching tool. ????
We arrive, Sgt says we're going to erect another set of overhead horizontal ladders to get us all to chow faster. We all had to go thru the ladders before every meal, so a lengthy queue always happened. One thing I'll give the ladders; it really, really hardened your hands. I had rows of callouses mid finger, on my palm at base of fingers, and mid palm through the thumb web all the way across the palm to the outer edge.
Any how, we figger dig six holes 2-3 feet deep, set 8x8 posts, pour some concrete, piece of cake. Well, then the posts arrive. They were 16 feet long, the holes had to be 8 feet deep!! By dinner, we had them dug, but I was terrified of a cave-in in the sandy soil, way over my head with no shoring. Being so deep, the holes were huge, actually just two 16' long trenches.
3. - Our platoon leader's pet address to us was "You [guano]birds are this that and the other..." , nothing nice. He told us if "You gaunobirds" keep screwing up, you will get 'hurricane drill.'"
Recall that your footlocker at the base of the iron bunk was not for actual use, but for inspection display only purposes, with underwear rolled around toilet paper tubes precisely 6" long filling in the bottom, a never used razor, blades, tooth powder, soap bar, and a tooth brush neatly arranged, all same brands throughout the platoon, precisely measured and square on top of the precisely folded, white GI towel in the top tray.
It was a dark and stormy night, pouring down rain, when at 0100, the barrack lights came on, Drill Sgts banging night sticks on galvanized buckets, yelling "Fall out on the company street for Hurricane Drill, uniform of the day is skivvy shorts, combat boots and footlockers!"
Stumble around, fall out, don't know what to do with footlocker, more yelling...Ten hut... poart...footlocker... Rah shoulda.. footlocker... layef ...sholda... footlocka...Rah...shoulda...footlocka... prayasen... footlocka...port... footlocka...layeft faaa.. fard harch... double taiyem...harch ...pouring down rain... surprising how many lights are on around Fort Jackson at O-dark-thirty...after about twenty minutes, occasional crash of footlocker and cursing, back to barracks, another little manual of arms with footlockers, "Barracks inspectcheun - 0430... Fawl out!" There we were, exhausted, muddy, dripping wet, wondering how we're going to sort out this mess without trashing our immaculate barracks floor and latrine, readied for daily inspection the night before.
Answer - you don't sleep, and you hope yours is not the footlocker the Drill Sgt chooses in the morning inspection to lift the tray to find the wet display underwear underneath.
That was the same platoon leader who called us around him, in the middle of the afternoon in August in some sunburned field at Ft. Jackson, to tell us guanobirds that American ships had been fired on in the Gulf of Tonkin, that we were at war, and you guanobirds are gonna be the first to go to combat in Vietnam, maybe next month.
Sobering thought, but as hot and dirty as we were, we just wanted to get through the next day, one more day closer to getting out of Ft. Jackson and being a nobody, a knob-headed cipher of a trainee.
4. Had 19 straight days of violent thunderstorms every afternoon in August. Almost got hit by a lightning bolt on the rifle range. Felt my hair stand up, saw St. Elmo's fire on my clipboard I was using to score a guy in the foxhole. It blew a utility pole to pieces about 40 feet from where I was standing.
That same day, we saw three or four guys in ponchos, from another company, lying on the ground on a hillside by the golf course as we marched by in the pouring rain. Found out later they had been killed by a lightning strike.
I was in pretty good shape to start with, but actually gained weight but lost inches at the waist over the nine weeks. Then, graduation, prep for leave, "Get the barracks ready, and you can leave" said the company clerk, hurry hurry hurry, buff buff buff, pack duffel, get orders, get on deuce and a half, go to pole shed about 0800. Sit in pole shed with dirt floor on duffel. All day. No lunch. Thunderstorm about 1300. Dirt floor now mud floor, polished Class A black shoes now half brown and muddy. Sweaty, soaking wet from rain, all creases in class A summer khaki's gone. 2400 - truck to train station. Train is milk run, stops at every telephone pole, wooden third class seats, nothing to eat. 24 hrs to home. See really sharp looking Marines get off train, meet their loved ones, I get off looking like a drowned rat, nobody there because train was way late, had to borrow a dime to call my girl friend.
In spite of my appearance, she was still glad to see me and took me home to my folks' house. All was right with the world.
I even made my bed at 0600 the next day.
Reveille 0400, Run, sweat, sand, run, sweat, sand. Sand really sticks good to sweat. Lights out 2200.
Day after day.
Our battalion was a test bed for a new BCT methodology. As such, there were as many as eight Drill Sgts per platoon, more than half of them had CIBs, they all wore tan pith helmets, which I guess was a blessing compared to OD helmets in the blazing South Carolina sun, and we were the first to get pugil stick training ala the USMC. There was no physical abuse, such as striking or tripping, but there was intense physical training: a pre-dawn run, mass PT every day, sometimes twice a day, double time everywhere, in formation and on your own. After dinner, hand to hand workouts and pugil fights in the sandpits behind the barracks, low crawl workouts (right down flat on the belly, scrape up your belt buckle, move like an alligator) that made you feel like your guts will spill out when you stood up.
Cleaning out the foul smelling, slimy grease pit off the end of the mess hall was a regular assignment for slackers, but only four incidents stood out for me.
1. - standing in formation, early in the cycle, Drill Sgt says "Anybody wanna smoke?" and some fool said "Yes Drill Sgt!"
Drill Sgt lit him up, and promptly put a galvanized bucket over the fool's head, and started yelling "Smoke, c'mon, you wanna smoke you ***, now ^&**^#@ smoke, I wanna see smoke!!!" and he puffed until he puked.
Nobody ever wanted a smoke after that.
2. - Sunday was supposedly a day off, but if you stayed around the barracks and tried for a nap, you'd for sure be on a work detail by 0900. With slick sleeves and a knob haircut, you'd be ID'ed as a trainee anywhere on post, and no matter where you went, you dare not lie down or immediate work detail would ensue.
Well, one fine Sunday morning, I go caught in barracks with a few other guys, Sgt says report to the mess hall with your entrenching tool. ????
We arrive, Sgt says we're going to erect another set of overhead horizontal ladders to get us all to chow faster. We all had to go thru the ladders before every meal, so a lengthy queue always happened. One thing I'll give the ladders; it really, really hardened your hands. I had rows of callouses mid finger, on my palm at base of fingers, and mid palm through the thumb web all the way across the palm to the outer edge.
Any how, we figger dig six holes 2-3 feet deep, set 8x8 posts, pour some concrete, piece of cake. Well, then the posts arrive. They were 16 feet long, the holes had to be 8 feet deep!! By dinner, we had them dug, but I was terrified of a cave-in in the sandy soil, way over my head with no shoring. Being so deep, the holes were huge, actually just two 16' long trenches.
3. - Our platoon leader's pet address to us was "You [guano]birds are this that and the other..." , nothing nice. He told us if "You gaunobirds" keep screwing up, you will get 'hurricane drill.'"
Recall that your footlocker at the base of the iron bunk was not for actual use, but for inspection display only purposes, with underwear rolled around toilet paper tubes precisely 6" long filling in the bottom, a never used razor, blades, tooth powder, soap bar, and a tooth brush neatly arranged, all same brands throughout the platoon, precisely measured and square on top of the precisely folded, white GI towel in the top tray.
It was a dark and stormy night, pouring down rain, when at 0100, the barrack lights came on, Drill Sgts banging night sticks on galvanized buckets, yelling "Fall out on the company street for Hurricane Drill, uniform of the day is skivvy shorts, combat boots and footlockers!"
Stumble around, fall out, don't know what to do with footlocker, more yelling...Ten hut... poart...footlocker... Rah shoulda.. footlocker... layef ...sholda... footlocka...Rah...shoulda...footlocka... prayasen... footlocka...port... footlocka...layeft faaa.. fard harch... double taiyem...harch ...pouring down rain... surprising how many lights are on around Fort Jackson at O-dark-thirty...after about twenty minutes, occasional crash of footlocker and cursing, back to barracks, another little manual of arms with footlockers, "Barracks inspectcheun - 0430... Fawl out!" There we were, exhausted, muddy, dripping wet, wondering how we're going to sort out this mess without trashing our immaculate barracks floor and latrine, readied for daily inspection the night before.
Answer - you don't sleep, and you hope yours is not the footlocker the Drill Sgt chooses in the morning inspection to lift the tray to find the wet display underwear underneath.
That was the same platoon leader who called us around him, in the middle of the afternoon in August in some sunburned field at Ft. Jackson, to tell us guanobirds that American ships had been fired on in the Gulf of Tonkin, that we were at war, and you guanobirds are gonna be the first to go to combat in Vietnam, maybe next month.
Sobering thought, but as hot and dirty as we were, we just wanted to get through the next day, one more day closer to getting out of Ft. Jackson and being a nobody, a knob-headed cipher of a trainee.
4. Had 19 straight days of violent thunderstorms every afternoon in August. Almost got hit by a lightning bolt on the rifle range. Felt my hair stand up, saw St. Elmo's fire on my clipboard I was using to score a guy in the foxhole. It blew a utility pole to pieces about 40 feet from where I was standing.
That same day, we saw three or four guys in ponchos, from another company, lying on the ground on a hillside by the golf course as we marched by in the pouring rain. Found out later they had been killed by a lightning strike.
I was in pretty good shape to start with, but actually gained weight but lost inches at the waist over the nine weeks. Then, graduation, prep for leave, "Get the barracks ready, and you can leave" said the company clerk, hurry hurry hurry, buff buff buff, pack duffel, get orders, get on deuce and a half, go to pole shed about 0800. Sit in pole shed with dirt floor on duffel. All day. No lunch. Thunderstorm about 1300. Dirt floor now mud floor, polished Class A black shoes now half brown and muddy. Sweaty, soaking wet from rain, all creases in class A summer khaki's gone. 2400 - truck to train station. Train is milk run, stops at every telephone pole, wooden third class seats, nothing to eat. 24 hrs to home. See really sharp looking Marines get off train, meet their loved ones, I get off looking like a drowned rat, nobody there because train was way late, had to borrow a dime to call my girl friend.
In spite of my appearance, she was still glad to see me and took me home to my folks' house. All was right with the world.
I even made my bed at 0600 the next day.
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^^^^^^^^
That's exactly why I was an airman.
That's exactly why I was an airman.
OP
BLACKHAWKNJ
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Back in the Day Fort Dix was derided as the original "Camp Swampy", a "country club", allegations that troops who trained there had a lower survival rate, etc. Being the only large Army base in the Northeast, the only one conducting BCT, located between New York and Philadelphia it was subject to a lot of media scrutiny. There were a couple of recruit deaths in the year before I enlisted in 1967, that didn't make for good publicity.
The word that struck fear and terror into the heart of every recruit when I was there was "RECYCLED!" The usual reasons were illness, injury-and PT failure. AFAIK there was no Fatboys company, the cadre in our company did not monitor the caloric intake of the porkers. At the end of the 3rd or 4th week there was a make or break PT test, those who failed it were "RECYCLED!" I walk past the room of one of the bolos-he was stuffing his fat face with a hamburger.
The word that struck fear and terror into the heart of every recruit when I was there was "RECYCLED!" The usual reasons were illness, injury-and PT failure. AFAIK there was no Fatboys company, the cadre in our company did not monitor the caloric intake of the porkers. At the end of the 3rd or 4th week there was a make or break PT test, those who failed it were "RECYCLED!" I walk past the room of one of the bolos-he was stuffing his fat face with a hamburger.
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1974 Lackland AFB, Texas. I hate to say it but AF Basic Training wasn't tough at all. My problem was I left NJ and it was 19 degree. I would go running so that I'd be ready for that mile and a half in 16 minutes. First time we had to run it was 95 degrees out and I couldn't take it. I ended up passing out.
When running the obstacle course one of the guys tripped me when I was passing him and I pulled all the ligaments in my leg. Had to go to a deferent squadron and almost had to start Basic all over. Ended up on crutches.
In the chow line one of the servers asked me what happened to my leg and I joked that the DI pushed me. He was standing behind me a the time and said he'd do more than trip me next time...
I lost 20 pounds during Basic even though PT was easy. Glad I joined the AF.
When running the obstacle course one of the guys tripped me when I was passing him and I pulled all the ligaments in my leg. Had to go to a deferent squadron and almost had to start Basic all over. Ended up on crutches.
In the chow line one of the servers asked me what happened to my leg and I joked that the DI pushed me. He was standing behind me a the time and said he'd do more than trip me next time...
I lost 20 pounds during Basic even though PT was easy. Glad I joined the AF.
My Bronx born and raised brother, went to Fort Jackson SC in '71. He lost 40+ lbs, alot of baby fat, and came back from basic talking Y'all, Sir, Ma'am.
My parents thought it was the Invasion of the Body Snatchers. "Who is this?"
My parents thought it was the Invasion of the Body Snatchers. "Who is this?"
Cadre striking a trainee in front of witnesses was forbidden when I was in BCT at Ft. Knox in '69. But, there was something called "laundry detail." If a trainee was a dud, (Army equivalent to a USMC Gomer Pyle), or had an attitude problem, they were assigned to said detail. He would be called to the supply room after training. Inside, several of the cadre awaited to show the trainee in question the error of his ways behind closed doors. Laundry bags were piled up against the walls to prevent serious injury, hence the name, laundry detail.
ace22
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april 1971, basic at fort polk.
my company was on the range for night fire training. we were in prone position lined up before firing as the range officer was running through the safety procedures on the pa system.
right as he asked 'is there anyone down range' a troop about 5 spaces down from me fired his m-16. two drill sergeants immediately ran up to him, one kicked him in the head as he was still prone then they grabbed him and dragged him off.
i never saw that troop again, still wonder what happened to him.
my company was on the range for night fire training. we were in prone position lined up before firing as the range officer was running through the safety procedures on the pa system.
right as he asked 'is there anyone down range' a troop about 5 spaces down from me fired his m-16. two drill sergeants immediately ran up to him, one kicked him in the head as he was still prone then they grabbed him and dragged him off.
i never saw that troop again, still wonder what happened to him.
F4phantom
US Veteran
We were all T.U.R.D.'s. Trainees Undergoing Rigid Discipline.
Semper Fi
Semper Fi
I don't know how "brutal" it was, but a funny story. 1964 boot camp in San Diego we spent a lot of time learning how to fold up our uniforms to fit in a locker.
You were washing your stuff on concrete wash tables drying them on clothes lines and refolding them to fit in your locker.
One boot was caught with his locker just having a front of clothes for inspection and the rest, dirty, under his mattress.
They took his entire seabag and dumped in a metal trash can, filled it half way with water and soap. He had to strip naked, climb in the can and march, yelling "I'm a scrounge" for what seemed like forever.
It was funny and very hard not to laugh, but I think they got the point across.
You were washing your stuff on concrete wash tables drying them on clothes lines and refolding them to fit in your locker.
One boot was caught with his locker just having a front of clothes for inspection and the rest, dirty, under his mattress.
They took his entire seabag and dumped in a metal trash can, filled it half way with water and soap. He had to strip naked, climb in the can and march, yelling "I'm a scrounge" for what seemed like forever.
It was funny and very hard not to laugh, but I think they got the point across.
Jeff423
US Veteran
It's hard to believe that Navy basic training changed that much in seven years. When I was at Great Lakes NTC in '69 our "boot camp" was much like the Air Force training described above: lots of clothes folding, classes, we ran an obstacle course about 5 times, shot a .22 about five shots.
Weight didn't seem to be a problem but swimming was. You had to pass a swimming test before you could complete basic and I remember several guys were held back until they passed the test.
They tried to teach us how to march but that was mostly for the "Graduation" formation.
I remember our "DI" was a Boiler Tender CPO and being an instructor at boot camp was about the only way he could get shore duty. I think he was just glad not to be at sea and didn't care much about the rest of it. He knew he was going back to sea duty fairly soon.
I don't know how "brutal" it was, but a funny story. 1964 boot camp in San Diego we spent a lot of time learning how to fold up our uniforms to fit in a locker.
You were washing your stuff on concrete wash tables drying them on clothes lines and refolding them to fit in your locker.
One boot was caught with his locker just having a front of clothes for inspection and the rest, dirty, under his mattress.
They took his entire seabag and dumped in a metal trash can, filled it half way with water and soap. He had to strip naked, climb in the can and march, yelling "I'm a scrounge" for what seemed like forever.
It was funny and very hard not to laugh, but I think they got the point across.
There you go! THIS is what I'm talkin; about! My old company commander would have been on that like a duck on a June bug.
UncleEd
Member
Quite a few stories here of mock
and real brutality or just plain
hazing.
But who was aware of sergeants
being thrown down stairs, being
beaten and the culprits never
identified?
The attacks could come on base
or within a fort or sometimes
in the nearby town.
Sometimes the recruits, or perhaps
better referred to as "inmates,"
could be meaner than the
sergeant disciplinarians. The
attackers could be draftees
and came from the mean streets
of America.
and real brutality or just plain
hazing.
But who was aware of sergeants
being thrown down stairs, being
beaten and the culprits never
identified?
The attacks could come on base
or within a fort or sometimes
in the nearby town.
Sometimes the recruits, or perhaps
better referred to as "inmates,"
could be meaner than the
sergeant disciplinarians. The
attackers could be draftees
and came from the mean streets
of America.
Went to Basic in Ft. Ord in June '74 three weeks after turning 17. 5'7" and 117#. Our DI Cadre was tough but fair. The worst I saw was one guy in my platoon being thrown off the top bunk by the DI because he was a lazy butt who regularly overslept. Being a farm boy who worked his butt of I had no problem with the physical side of basic but I did gain 20# during the eight weeks. I crossed over to the Air Force the next year and spent 1 week in basic, I bypassed tested my way past the rest of it.
I went through the same training in the summer of 1965 & not much had changed. I still use some of the lessons learned so many years ago.
